


The Man I Used to Be

by TheAuthorAgain



Series: Ongoing Fics [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stucky - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anal Sex, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Biphobia, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Character Study, Depression, Domestic Violence, F/M, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Smut, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, War, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, betas are for bitches so I don't have one, phantom pains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28407642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuthorAgain/pseuds/TheAuthorAgain
Summary: "You move on, or at least you're supposed to. You grow, you learn how to live in a world so different than the one you knew overseas. You try. I try. And God, I wish that was enough."Bucky Barnes has been home for eight months, honorably discharged after losing an arm in Afghanistan. Steve Rogers is starting anew in New York, hoping that he can get more than just his college degree out of the city. Recovery is difficult...but less so with someone to love.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson
Series: Ongoing Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204046
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not a happy one. It deals with some very heavy topics, such as PTSD, depression, suicide, sexual abuse, and domestic violence. It is rated mature for a reason. I use strong language and graphic descriptions to tell my stories, and if this is not something you are willing to read, don't read it.
> 
> This story has joy, however. It has healing, it has hope. I encourage you, if you are not deterred by the themes listed above and in the tags, to enjoy this story and gain what you can.

"Hey, how are you?" they'd say. And I'd answer, "I feel like I'm being eaten from the inside out and I can't tell anyone what's going on because everyone is so grateful to me all the time and I'll feel like I'm ungrateful or something. Or like I'll give away that I don't deserve anyone's gratitude and really they should all hate me for what I've done but everyone loves me for it and it's driving me crazy." Right.  
Or should I have said that I wanted to die, not in the sense of wanting to throw myself off of that train bridge over there, but more like wanting to be asleep forever because there isn't any making up for killing women or even watching women get killed, or for that matter killing men and shooting them in the back and shooting them more times than necessary to actually kill them and it was like just trying to kill everything you saw sometimes because it felt like there was acid seeping down into your soul and then your soul is gone and knowing from being taught your whole life that there is no making up for what you are doing, you're taught that your whole life, but then even your mother is so happy and proud because you lined up your sight posts and made people crumple and they were not getting up ever and yeah they might have been trying to kill you too, so you say, What are you gonna do?, but really it doesn't matter because by the end you failed at the one good thing you could have done, the one person you promised would live is dead, and you have seen all things die in more manners than you'd like to recall..."  
**― Kevin Powers ―**

"It was my duty to shoot the enemy, and I don't regret it. My regrets are for the people I couldn't save: Marines, soldiers, buddies. I'm not naive, and I don't romanticize war. The worst moments of my life have come as a SEAL. But I can stand before God with a clear conscience about doing my job."  
**― Chris Kyle ―**

"Although I'm an atheist, I try not to crap all over people's belief in God. It may be nothing more than a placebo, a fairy tale that gives the hopeless hope, but sometimes a little hope is all people need to get through the day. Imagine a unit of soldiers under heavy enemy fire. They are told by their superiors to hold their position, even in the face of overwhelming fire power. The soldiers are being told that reinforcements are on the way, and that thought alone gives them the hope and courage to continue fighting, even if ultimately the reinforcements never arrive. I think some people simply need to believe that God is sending them reinforcements, to get through another day."  
**― Oliver Gaspirtz ―**

"A favorite pastime of soldiers on long mounted patrols was testing each other with impossible hypotheticals. They were an endearing yet vulgar form of moral drama, but only because the alternative was to contemplate being blown up by an illiterate goat herder's morning project. "What would you rather do, have sex with your sister or shoot your mother?" "Would you rather pick up a baby with a pitchfork, or throw a paraplegic in a fire?" In one form or another, these young men were weighing the relative value of human life in real terms, perhaps as a surrogate for murkier thoughts that might otherwise be in the forefront, such as, "Why am I risking my life in this wasteland?" or "Whose life is worth more, that of my best friend in the gun turret or of some Iraqi kid I've never met?" It passed the time."  
**― Mike MacLeod ―**


	2. A Harsh and Early Mourning

They wanted my story. Scratch that, they wanted the story of Sergeant James Barnes, the war hero. The bruised, the bruiser. And I wasn't gonna give it to them.

If they had asked for Bucky from Brooklyn's story, I might be more inclined to tell it. You see, Bucky from Brooklyn isn't a killer. Bucky from Brooklyn doesn't still remember every gunshot and lie awake at night thinking about how much he missed his mom and his sister and the grass and hands that didn't always seem like they were covered in blood. Bucky from Brooklyn? He was fine, he was everybody's favorite guy. And I...I wanna be Bucky from Brooklyn again.

But I'm not, though. I'm not either of those men, the only two men anyone sees me as anymore. I'm not some valiant soldier, and I'm not the man I used to be. I'm just...me. I think.

They shipped me back home eight months ago, leaving a whole lot more than just my arm in Afghanistan. I was...it was difficult. Five years. I spent five years out there, before I took six bullets to my left arm defending my commanding officer. Medic had to amputate it on the field, gave me a hell of a lot of scars and a hell of a lot of trauma.

But we all got some of that, right? I mean, damn, I had some before I enlisted. Nothing too bad, no PTSD or anything, but seeing your ma get the crap beaten out of her every other night is bound to make a kid messed up in the head. At least a little bit.

I'm just happy my dad had the common sense to leave before I got old enough to grow a spine and call the cops. I was little, y'know, I couldn't really understand that mommies and daddies aren't supposed to hurt each other. The guilt set in later, when I got to be around twelve and I realized just how much I let happen in my house.

Becks says that it wasn't my fault, that I was too young to do anything. She was four when he left, though, so it's not like she gets it.

I'm living with her now, her and mom. Is it pathetic for a 24 year old man to live with his mother? Maybe. But it's not like I've got anywhere else to go.

"Bucky, honey, could you come downstairs?"

Right, here we are. Saturday morning in the Barnes household, Becca sleeping off a hangover and Ma yelling up the stairs. "Coming!" I call back hoarsely, sitting up in bed and rubbing my forehead.

I didn't sleep much last night, nightmares. They've been bad the past week or so, tomorrow is the two year anniversary of-anyways. I stand with a groan, catch myself on a bedpost with my one arm when I lose my balance for a moment. It happens pretty often.

I plod down the stairs and squint in the morning light, make out the sight of Ma sitting at the table with three younger men. "What is this?"

The red headed one stands earnestly, says, "You're James-"

"Bucky," my mom corrects.

"Bucky," he accepts, smiling tightly. "You're _Bucky_ Barnes, correct? We're the team from Colgate University, I believe your mother mentioned..."

I remember absolutely nothing about University pricks coming to my house at eight in the fucking morning, and so I say so. "No, no she didn't." I glare at Ma before continuing, "What do you want?"

The blond and brunet exchange a look as the ginger one continues speaking. "We...Mrs. Barnes-"

 _"Ms._ Barnes, actually-"

 _"Ms._ Barnes," he says irritably, "I believe we asked you to talk to your son-?"

"I did. Baby, remember? On Tuesday, when you yelled at-when the men from the university called and asked if they could interview you? And you got mad but we talked about it and you decided to go through with it?"

Oh, I do remember that now. "No, doesn't ring a bell."

"Well, now that you know who we are and why we're here..." the brunet pipes up, "Do you mind if we interview you? It doesn't have to be personal at all, you could just give a sentence or two if you want." He pulls out his phone, already set to a voice recorder, and nudges the blond, who then grabs a notebook from his bag.

I sigh, and turn to my mom. She has that face again, the one that says she's afraid of me and tired of me yet protective of me nonetheless. She tries to hide it, but I can see right through her façade. Guess I'll give these assholes what they want...for her. So I don't have to see that look turn into one of deep sadness. 

"Yeah, sure. I can talk a little bit, I guess."

The ginger looks at Ma, who stands and kisses me on the head before leaving the room. "Thank you, Bucky. Can I call you Bucky?"

"Uh, sure." I shrink a bit, now that it's just me and these strangers with backpacks that could hold any number of guns and grenades and-

"Great. I'm Allen, that's Holden, and that's Steve." He points to the brunet and the blond in turn, and I nod my acknowledgement. "So, Bucky...what made you join the Army?"

It's a simple question, one I've been asked countless times and can therefore answer with ease. "Well, my dad was a military man. We never had a close relationship, but I always hoped that I could get closer to him, in a way, by following in his footsteps. Plus, I wanted the discipline and skills the Army could give me."

I spare a glance for the blond-Steve, who's dutifully writing down every word. My eyes are drawn back to Allen, though, when he clears his throat and gives a sugary sweet smile. "That's really noble...did you always know you wanted to enlist?"

"Um...not really. I only really started looking into it when I got into high school."

"When you first enlisted, what was it like? Did you make any friends right off the bat?"

I slouch even more, wrap my arms around my body and squeeze to try and ground myself. "I...not really. There was this g-no. Nope, no friends."

"If this is a sore subject, we can move on-"

"Who said it was a sore subject?" I yell, shocking myself and the three men in front of me with the volume. "I'm fine, okay? Ask your fucking questions." My voice goes back to normal, fading into a mumble I doubt they can even hear.

Allen opens his mouth to speak, but Holden talks instead of him. "Bucky, we really don't need anything more from you if you're not comfortable."

"I'm fine."

"Okay..." he takes a deep breath, before asking, "What was your experience losing your arm? Obviously, that's something awful that no one wants to happen, but were you glad you could at least leave the warfront?"

The other two look at Holden in shock, then turn to me in fear. Damn, this guy has guts for asking such a blunt question... "My experience losing my arm? Yeah, man, it sucked. But what's even worse is when people come into my house at eight in the fucking morning asking me to tell them all about it for-for what? For a term paper? A final presentation? Fuck off."

"I'm-"

"I'm sure you are. Get out, please."

The brunet and ginger scamper immediately, starting to bicker even before they're out of earshot. "It's not like he was gonna say anything more, I just wanted..." I hear Holden say before the front door shuts behind him.

"You gonna leave, too?" I ask Steve, who's still sitting at my kitchen table. "Not like your asshole friends are gonna go without you."

"Oh, they will. Trust me." He chuckles, and I can't help but relax a little at the sound. His smile fades, though, and he looks seriously at my with bright blue eyes. "I'm sorry, about them. This _is_ for a final presentation, you were right."

"You don't seem too enthusiastic about it..."

Steve sighs, running a hand over his eyes. "I'm not. I hate this class, I hate that I had to be paired with them, I hate that they decided to bug a veteran on a Saturday morning. But it's not like I could do anything about it, if I fail any of my classes I'll lose my scholarship."

"What are you majoring in?" I usually don't take the time to talk to people other than Ma and Becks, but this Steve guy seems nice enough. Besides, the fact that the other two haven't come back for him makes me think that he really doesn't get along with them at all.

"Graphic design. This class is supposed to be for getting depth and context to our art, creating pieces inspired by real life stories...hypothetically, it's great. But there's just too much research involved and my professor doesn't actually put as much focus on the design side of the class-sorry, I'm rambling." Steve laughs awkwardly, but I'm quick to reassure him.

"No, you're not. It's interesting, I never went to college so it's fun to hear about other people's experience."

He smiles at me. "Yeah...well, I don't want to take up too much of your morning. I've already taken enough of your time, honestly. I..." He hesitates for a moment, before scribbling something in his notebook and tearing out the page, sliding it towards me quickly. "Here's my number. Feel free to call, or text, or whatever. Or not, you know, you just seem like a nice guy, and I don't exactly have many friends but obviously you don't have to-"

"Jesus, Steve. I'll text you."

"Okay." He grins, easy and astoundingly lovely in its simplicity, and stands up. "Have a nice day, Bucky."

"You too."

He leaves with that, and I sit for a while, staring at the ten numbers innocently waiting on a shred of paper. Not that I want to place much importance on a simple little interaction, this isn't important at all, but Steve is the first person to actually see me as more than just a war hero. More than just Sergeant Barnes.

Probably. Hopefully. Wait, no-I bet this is just a way for him to get my story, pass his dumb class and leave me in the dust. He doesn't want to get to know me, why would he? After I yelled at his friends, jeopardized his chance at keeping his scholarship? Steve doesn't-no. No, I can't make anything of this, because it's nothing.

"Sweetheart?" I look up at my mom, who's timidly standing in the doorway. "How did it go?"

"Umm...good, I guess. Didn't really tell them much."

Reassured by the fact that I'm relaxed, she strides over and sits next to me at the kitchen table. "That's just fine, honey, you don't need to open up to strangers about your-about your experience if you don't want to. And...I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but did I hear that one of those boys gave you his number?"

She's clearly holding in her excitement, thrilled by the fact that I'm finally getting myself back into the world in her eyes. "Yeah...yeah. He gave me his number, but I don't know if he actually wants to talk to me." She frowns at that, eyebrows coming together tightly.

"Why wouldn't he want to talk to you, Bucky?"

"I dunno, I guess I'm just a little bit-I'm not very fun to be around. He came here just to get my story, and then I yelled at the other guy right in front of him-"

"Honey, you've had a rough week, I'm sure Steve doesn't hold anything against you-"

"-and besides, what do we even have in common? Why would he want to 'be my friend' if the only thing he knows about me-"

"You really shouldn't sell yourself short, there's so much you have to offer-!"

"How would you know? You just keep pretending I'm the son you lost six years ago!" She's taken aback by that, stares at me with tears in her eyes. "Ma, I'm sorry-"

"No. No, you're right. I shouldn't-I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just-just talk to Steve, okay? Make a friend. I'm sorry."

She practically runs upstairs, and I'm left sitting alone once more. Staring at those ten numbers, thinking about all the things I've done wrong.

I wish I could be him. Bucky, I mean. I wish I could be funny, and smart, and charismatic. I wish my mother wasn't afraid of me, I wish my sister didn't get so drunk last night that she was sleeping lightly enough to hear the yelling downstairs. I wish it was later than 8:20 in the morning.

Mourning. I've found myself mourning Bucky Barnes, that guy everyone wants me to be. I'm just walking around in his corpse, melodramatic as it sounds, I am not and never will be him. But what can you do, right? You move on, or at least you're supposed to. You grow, you learn how to live in a world so different than the one you knew overseas. You try.

I try. And God, I wish that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This story won't be easy to write, I won't lie, but please give feedback and support along the way.  
> I am going into the military, or at least I'm gonna try to. This story is a way not only for me to give you guys content, but to research and understand the life I plan on leading. It'll be long, novel length, and it'll be close to my heart, so please be kind. I'm planning on updating every Monday, along with the occasional bonus chapters throughout the week if I get ahead of schedule enough.  
> I hope everyone is healthy, happy, and safe!  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


	3. Hesitation, Procrastination

I stare at my phone, a blank screen inviting me to send messages. I know I should probably reach out to this Steve guy, just to make my mom shut up. But...well, it's difficult.

I find myself scrolling down, looking at all the texts I've sent. There aren't many. The most recent one is to Becca, reminding her to be quiet when she comes home so she doesn't wake up Ma. And then one from Ma herself, thinly veiled concern in the form of a gentle reminder to be home before midnight. Texts from Sam, my therapist...all too soon, I find myself looking through messages from six years ago.

Damn. I look through all of them, fascinated by who I used to be. Asking if we had homework for bio, getting excited about football games so we could go see Marcus play. Was I really like this? Did I really care so much about things that mattered so little?

I lost contact with everyone in these messages. Even Ma and Becca. Five years. Five _fucking_ years. At least Sam reached out when he heard I came back home.

I scroll back up, linger over his contact. He came over to the house once or twice, we did some catching up. He's a therapist now, which is pretty cool. Always knew he was a caretaker, nice to see him make that into a career. _C'mon, idiot, stop stalling. Either text him or don't._

I sigh, look back at the slip of paper Steve left me. I don't know if I...I'm not ready to talk to someone new, tell him everything about me and watch him become disgusted by the things I've done. But I do want to see _someone,_ placate Ma...

So I text Sam. Simple: "Are you free tonight?" Either he responds or he doesn't, I'll totally be fine even if he's sick of me and doesn't want-

My phone dings, showing his enthusiastic reply. "Yes!!! You up for some motherfucking PASTA?!?!?!"

A smile spreads across my face, a smile I can't for the life of me get rid of. Yeah, Sam. Let's get some motherfucking pasta.  
  


"So, how you been?"

The place Sam picked is just the right amount of trashy-you've got enough neck beards and loud laughter to make it homey, but there isn't popcorn on the floor. I think about his question for a moment, before answering, "Good. I'm good."

"Bullshit, Barnes. How are you, really?"

I snort, shovel another fork-load of pasta into my mouth. "I'm _fine,_ Sam," I say through my stuffed mouth, "I mean, I'm shitty, but given the levels of shitty I usually hang around in, I'm fine. How bout you? Got any interesting clients you wanna tell me about?"

Sam rolls his eyes and points a fork at me. "You're not allowed to ask that question."

"Why not? I just did."

"Fair enough." He takes a sip of water, giving the conversation a healthy pause. "I'm good. I don't really have any clients right now, to be honest, I only got my master's degree like six months ago. Got hired as a school counselor, though, which is nice. My dad landed the gig for me-you remember how he used to work at our high school?"

"Yup."

"Yeah, he pulled a few strings for me. I wanted to do trauma therapy, but the school is at least a way to pay the bills while I find a way to get there."

"That's awesome, man. I'm really glad you're able to do that. Always knew you'd end up helping other people as your job."

He smiles at me, but my stomach drops as I see his face morph into That expression, the one that says I've messed up somehow and I'm gonna get a not so gentle reminder to pull myself together. "Yeah...how about you? Have you been doing much ever since...since the last time I saw you?"

Which was five months ago. "Um...sort of? A lot of physical therapy, catching up on TV shows and movies I missed, spending time with my family..."

"Got a job?"

"Nope. Not yet. Been meaning to look into getting one, actually, just keep forgetting. I gotta do that one of these days."

"I bet it would help, you know, having something to fill your time other than looking back on shit. Obviously, you're gonna do that either way, but if you have stuff to look forward to..."

I snort, looking at him with a mixture of dry humor and admiration. "You really are a therapist, huh?"

"You bet your ass I am." He grins and takes another bite. "But don't discount my advice just because of that, you really should try and get some stuff going on. TV and movies are great, but they aren't exactly a goal, something that can make you feel involved in the world."

"Then what is?"

Sam shrugs. "Hobbies? Friends? A romantic partner? The pursuit of higher education, exercise goals, social activities...the list goes on and on, man."

"I guess. It's just-it's hard." A wave of exhaustion _(depression, dumbass, Mark said that the exhaustion is depression)_ washes over me, and I strain to think of something to say that'll make my friend proud of me. "Uh, some guy came to my house and gave me his number?"

"That's great! Wait, is that great? That actually sounds kind of stalker-ish without any more context-"

"No, no, it wasn't stalker-ish at all. He was from some college, doing a project for one of his classes. His groupmates made him come along and ask me about-y'know, and then he stayed for a little bit and chatted with me."

"Oh, so that is great. And he gave you his number? In a romance way or a friend way?"

I blush at that. I haven't come out to Sam, not officially...honestly, I haven't officially come out to anyone. Clearly, he wouldn't care, but- "Friend way. Definitely a friend way. I haven't texted him yet, though."

"Why the fuck not? If he's a nice guy, hang out with him! Make a friend! Make Sammy proud!"

I crack up at that, and he joins in after looking at me in shock for a moment. "Okay, _Sammy,_ but no promises. I'm not good with people, you know that."

"What do you mean? You were crazy popular back in high school!" My laughter fades at the memory of who I used to be. Sam backtracks, "Not that-obviously you don't need to be-I know that a lot has changed since then-"

"It's okay, Sam. Really. I'm just...it's hard to think about life before everything happened, before everything changed."

"I get that. I'm sorry, man."

I shake my head firmly. "Don't be, you meant no harm. In any case, I'll text Steve. Probably. Maybe. I don't know if I will, actually, but I'll do my best to try to text Steve."

"Sounds good."  
  


I look at that number again, lost in thought. "Steve" the contact says, his number below. I entered it into my phone, that's a step! That's a step. Even if I don't want to text him...

I had a flashback this morning. A bad one. And I decided to just get it over with, do something to make the monotony stop. I applied to work at Old Navy. Is it a small step? Yes. But is it a step? Yes.

I realize that I've been sitting on my bed thinking since I ate breakfast this morning. Seeing as it's three in the afternoon, I should probably stand up. I stretch, popping my back, and bound down the stairs on stiff legs. I catch myself as I almost run into Rebecca, who's sitting at the kitchen table on her computer.

"Hey, Becks!" She doesn't respond, engrossed in her work. I clear my throat and say, "Becca?"

She blinks suddenly and looks at me, slamming the laptop shut as a grin overtakes her face. "Shit, Buck, hi! You're here! You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Just wondering, haven't seen ya in a while."

I frown, wrapping my arm around my body. "What do you mean? We had breakfast together this morning, and dinner last night-"

"Well, sure, but you've been distant. Here, sit down." She sweeps her arm across the table, knocking papers to the floor, and grabs books off a chair to give me a place to sit. She drops those on top of the papers, making me flinch with the noise. "Oops, sorry."

"You're...you're good."

A pause fills the air, one I'm reluctant to fill. Becca, ever the extrovert, quickly acts to keep the conversation going. "So, why haven't you been yourself lately? PTSD? Depression? What's up?"

"Jesus, Rebecca, blunt much?" She stares back at me unapologetically, and I sigh. "Yeah, PTSD. Had a flashback this morning, and...just, these few weeks are kinda hard for me."

"I get that. Wanna talk about it?"

"I don't think I'm ready for that. Nothing against you, sorry."

She smiles and squeezes my hand. "Hey, no problem. Have you talked to Mark?" Mark being my therapist. I shift uncomfortably, knowing that I definitely haven't and she's probably disappointed in me for that. "Bucky, you gotta talk to someone. Spending all your time inside your head isn't healthy."

"You think I don't know that? I'm _trying,_ okay!" Frustration overtakes me and I drop her hand to run mine over my face. "I'm trying."

"I know you are. But I also think you could try harder. Have you texted Steve?"

I squint at her. "How do you know about that?"

"God told me in a dream. How do you think, dumbass? Ma told me. You're avoiding the question, though, have you texted him?" I say nothing, and she snorts. "I'll take that as a no, then."

"It's just-"

"Hard? Yeah, I understand. But you can't just mope around all the time, you need to take action! Do shit! Take control of your life!" She gestures wildly as she speaks, initiating a chuckle from me.

"You realize I'm a war hero, right? Lost an arm in Afghanistan eight months ago? Earned the respect of the country through my valiant feats? You could be a little respectful, too, if you wanted."

The playful mood shivers and dies, leaving an uncharacteristic solemnity on my sister's face. "I do respect you, Bucky. But you're more than what you've done for the world, you're more than just a soldier. And I'm not going to treat you like you're made of glass, even if you are. I'm gonna treat you like you're my brother, because that's what you are."

I sigh, touched by her words but unwilling to show it. "I'm hardly him anymore, you know that right? I'm not your brother, I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. You're distant and you get angry quick and you spend more time with your thoughts than you do with anyone else, but you are my brother. You are James Buchanan Barnes, you are Winifred's son and _Rebecca's brother._ Don't you fucking dare to tell me otherwise."

"...okay."

"Okay. Shit, man, that got really deep really fast. Oh, are you gay?"

I start coughing violently, eyes wide. _"What?"_

"Yeah, I thought so. Just wondering, because usually if a guy comes to your house and gives you his number there's gotta be some sort of reciprocation. You know? You had to be giving Steve gay vibes back."

"What are you-Becks, I'm not gay. Steve didn't give me his number in a romantic way, it was platonic!"

"Okay," she says mockingly, "Whatever you say. Text him anyways."

"Why do you care what I do? Steve is just some random dude who-"

"Text him right now, James! I'm not asking, I'm telling! Stop moping!" She reaches over to pull my phone out of my pocket, and I try to defend myself from her slapping hand and sharp elbows. Given that I only have one hand to use, though, she's quickly able to grab the device and start trying to unlock it.

I reach over to take it back, but she slaps my hand away. "Aw, c'mon, Becks, I'll text him. I'll text him! Fuck you, give me my phone back!" She puts it into my hand and I recoil, mumbling under my breath as I open the messages app.

"Got something you want to share with the class?"

"No. Fuck you."

Well, I guess I have to talk to him now.


	4. One Simple Thought

I bounce my knees, drumming my fingers on the table. I've gotten a lot of looks, too many to feel comfortable with, so I'm just praying Steve gets here soon and they're looking at his god-like body instead of my crippled one. Not that-obviously, I meant that in a friendly way.

I don't know why I'm so nervous. I mean, I exchanged like five sentences with the guy. This isn't a date, there's no consequences if I botch it or whatever. So why am I nervous? I really shouldn't be nervous. _C'mon, you fucking idiot, stop being nervous!_

I accidentally make eye contact with one of the people looking at me, and we both glance away awkwardly. I swear to God, if Steve doesn't get here soon-

The door to the bar opens, and I can't help but turn to the noise like a dog when their owner comes home. It's not him, though, just a small group of ladies and some guy in a suit-hang on, he is here! I grin and stand, waving to the blond man currently scanning the space. He returns my smile when he sees me and plops down on the adjacent barstool.

"Hey, thanks for reaching out!" he says enthusiastically, looking at me with rosy cheeks and those baby blue eyes.

I nod vigorously (too vigorously?) and gesture to his formal outfit. "What's with the getup? Did you go to a wedding before this or something?"

"Ha, no. I just-I had a thing."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to pry-"

"You're fine! It just-I-" He giggles nervously and looks down with a blush. "Art auction. I, um, I got invited to participate like a month ago, some old rich dude decided to hold an event specifically for students and small business owners. I got picked to be a part of it just by chance."

I look at him with an amused pride. "And you're saying that's 'nothing'? That's huge! Also, I'm sure it wasn't just by chance, you've gotta be talented if you're going to college for ART."

"I guess." There's a pause, not necessarily uncomfortable but begging to be filled.

"Could I see?" I ask hesitantly, looking intently at Steve to gauge his reaction, "Your art, I mean. Obviously you don't have to show me, but if you want..."

He looks at me blankly for a moment. "You want to see my art? I-wow. Okay, yeah, sure. Yeah."

"You don't have to show me if you don't want to-" I start to defend, but he cuts me off quickly.

"I do! I really-I just didn't expect you to be interested in that."

"Why wouldn't I be?" He looks almost guilty for a moment, and I sigh before bracing myself. "Alright, Steve, out with it."

He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. "Well, I just...oh my God, this is gonna sound awful. I've just heard that veterans sometimes lose interest in like art and stuff, so I didn't think you would care? Because it's not...I don't even know. I'm sorry."

"You're fine. You can apologize for your insensitivity by bringing me to that art auction?"

"Sounds great."  
  


Seeing as I can't legally drive anymore, we take Steve's car. I pester him with questions about his college experience, and he answers them readily. From what I can tell, this man is a straight-A dork without a rebellious bone in his body, and I can't help but be charmed. Maybe it's the eyes, they really are too pretty for his own good.

We arrive at a museum, and I slam the car door shut. "Am I gonna stand out? I am wearing a T-shirt, after all."

"Eh, you'll be fine. The missing arm would make you stand out either way, so-hold on." He turns to me and starts taking off his suit jacket, putting it on me. "There. Now people will think you're a cocky billionaire who wears T-shirts under suit jackets and doesn't like to use his left arm."

I let out a loud laugh, and shake my head. "You really are something else, you know that?"

"Yeah, whatever. Let's go inside, jerk."

I instantly feel out of place in the grand lobby of this beautiful building, but try to pull myself together so I can support Steve. He leads me through wide hallways with marble floors, until we reach a banquet hall of sorts with tables and walls decorated by gorgeous paintings and sculptures. And then we reach Steve's section, and I let out a gasp.

"Holy shit," I say quietly, eyes widening as I take in his art. "How...this is incredible, Steve. I thought you said you were majoring in graphic design..."

The piece that immediately catches my eye is a painting, enormous and painfully intricate. A man, falling endlessly into a snowy landscape with haunting terror etched onto his surprisingly nondescript face. I stare at that face in wonder, unable to look away, as Steve bashfully responds, "Yeah, painting is my favorite, though. Digital art is a way to get a career, but this is really what I enjoy doing."

I reach a hand out, almost as if to touch his work although I know that to potentially mar this masterpiece is never something I could do. "What inspired this one?"

"A nightmare I've had for years. The man...I almost catch him, I beg for him to grab my hand, but he falls every time. And I can't do anything." With such a confession, I have to turn my attention from the art to the artist.

"Is the man someone you know?"

"No, at least I don't think so. He's more...a feeling. A symbol. Everything I have, everything I want. I tried not to make him look like a specific person, to represent that."

I chuckle, though it isn't funny, just baffled by Steve's talent. "Well, you succeeded. This is...Jesus, Steve. This is incredible. _You_ are incredible."

"Thanks." He's beet red, rocking back and forth on his heels with a small grin. "Do you wanna stick around here, or go back to the bar, or what?"

"I mean, I'll never pass on the opportunity to drink..."

"The bar it is."

Instead of driving back to the one we met at, Steve and I wander around until we find a place to call our own. And...God, I feel stupid saying this, but it's like something just clicks between us. We talk endlessly, sharing stories and laughing like old friends. I almost wonder if we were close in a past life, if our souls are reuniting instead of meeting each other for the first time.

I don't get drunk. I haven't been using alcohol as a coping mechanism, that was one rabbit hole I was able to avoid, but when given the opportunity, I like to get drunk. But tonight, with Steve, I don't get drunk. I sound like a sap saying this, but his presence is intoxicating enough.

It's like he's sunshine, warmth. It's like he's everything I've ever wanted, every lover that's ever hunted me, every memory that's ever haunted me. Every person I've ever loved. He is somehow all of these things, these people and places that are a part of me, effortlessly reflecting my joy and pain and making it all brighter.

I don't know how to describe this instant connection without sounding absolutely insane, but Steve Rogers has somehow found a way past my flaws and insecurities and settled deep into my being, flooded my senses with flushed cheeks and golden hair. He's...

He's a man I just met. God, I'm an idiot. I shouldn't hang my hopes on handsome strangers, I've learned my lesson before. Even if this man lingers in my dreams tonight, dances in my thoughts, I can't let him in more than I already have. I can't let him see the awful things inside me and turn away like everyone else.

Logically, I know that he's a kind man. Logically, I know that his kindness wouldn't save me from the sting of rejection. Logically, I know I'm speaking to someone who will become a close friend at best. Logically, I know these things. But...

But when he gestures wildly, telling me some crazy story about a cat he used to have, I can't help but wish his artist's fingers would run softly against my cheek. When he smiles at me, I can't help but wish those lips would travel every inch of my body. When we say goodnight, I can't help but wish I never had to let him go.

God, did I really fight this? Did I really put off reaching out to him? How stupid I was, to do anything but embrace this incredible bond between us that's blossomed in the span of a few hours.

Maybe it's one sided, maybe he doesn't feel the same. Who am I kidding, he definitely doesn't feel the same. Why would he? I'm broken, damaged. I left more than just my arm in Afghanistan. So Steve doesn't feel the same, shouldn't feel the same, because I am more evil than a good man like him deserves.

Even if we're just friends.

I'm nearly giddy coming home, butterflies fluttering in my stomach, trying to fly away from the anxiety and doubt clawing at them with razer sharp nails. I take a moment before coming inside, look at the few stars that have gathered in the night sky. Try to bring down the roar in my head to one simple thought.

_Steve and I had fun tonight. I like Steve a lot, Steve doesn't like me. I'm okay with this._

Once every part of me has reluctantly agreed upon this, I nod to no one and quietly go inside. The house is quiet, welcoming me in a sleepy silence. I lock the door and set my keys in the bowl beside it, sigh. 

After cringing my way up a creaky set of stairs, I find myself standing in the doorway of Becca's bedroom. She's sleeping peacefully, arms wrapped around a pillow. God, Barnes, creepy much? I think to myself, but I keep looking for a moment. She was the one to give my tonight's joy, after all, and I just want to soak in the sight of her tranquility for one lingering moment...

A moment that the rational side of me ends. I close the door, look over at Ma's room. She always sleeps with the door open, has since we were kids. She always feared that someone would take her babies in the night and she wouldn't hear it, or a robber would break into our home. So I can see her sleeping form, rest easy knowing that she's there and she's safe.

All is well in the Barnes household.

I shrug off my clothes and climb into bed, lie with my eyes open. _Steve and I had fun tonight. I like Steve a lot, Steve doesn't like me. I'm okay with this._

"Good night, Bucky," I say softly to myself, before drifting into a blissfully dreamless rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little shorter than the other chapters, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Thanks for reading, as always!  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


	5. Pop Goes the Weasel

I'll start it off by saying that I am NOT a fan of parties. At all. Even before I enlisted, I hated the tense social atmosphere. Then again, I had only been to high school parties before I enlisted. Starting basic training when you're seventeen, not knowing that they'll need you overseas the moment you become an adult, it kinda makes it difficult to go to social events that aren't filled with angsty teenagers who just want to get drunk and get laid.

Becca dragged me along to a party once after I came home. The fifteen year old sister I left was a straight-A student, a girl. The 20 year old woman I returned to was an animal, obsessed with staying out until the morning and sleeping until the afternoon.

Did I do that to her? I wonder, sometimes. She was outgoing, of course, but was my leaving the reason she turned to sex and alcohol so young? At least she's 21 now, at least her drinking habits are legal. But it just...I hate the thought that I did this to my little Becks.

When she brought me out partying, I had a panic attack. It was too soon and we botht knew it, but we were so desperate to have something we both enjoyed that we ignored the warning signs and plowed straight off the cliff. Becca left to get a drink, came back to find me curled up on the floor with my hands over my ears and several people awkwardly trying to help. I haven't been to a party since.

Steve wants me to come to this one. Like the fucking idiot I am, I'm going. It's been a few months, I've had time to recover, so I'm sure that I'll be fine. I'll be fine. It'll be fine, right?

He's a good friend, so I have to do this for him. Shit, he's looked past all of the things wrong with me and spent time with me out of more than pity, so I need to do this for him. Even if the mere idea of being packed into a house with sweaty people and loud music makes me want to puke my guts out.

I'm standing in front of the mirror, holding up various shirts to see what will look best. "That one," a gentle voice says, and I turn to see Ma smiling at me, pointing to a basic red T-shirt.

"You sure?" I ask anxiously, "You don't think it'll be too plain?"

"Of course not. Just get a jacket or something over it-maybe that leather one you like so much? Or the denim one that Aunt Stacy got you for your birthday? And jeans, black ones."

I look appreciatively at my mom. "I...okay. Thanks, Ma."

"Any time, hon." She sighs, and a brief look of concern is covered up by her signature phony smile. "Do you have a girl you're trying to impress tonight? You seem pretty nervous, and it isn't exactly like you to stress over an outfit."

I cough to cover up my laugh, go to my dresser and dig for some pants. "Uh, no. I'm not trying to impress anyone, Ma, just...wanna look nice. It's the first party I've been to in a while, so..."

"Look, Bucky, I don't want to be such a mom right now, but are you sure that this is the right choice to be making? I mean, you remember what happened when you and Becca went over to her friend's house. And Mark said-"

"Can you stop bringing up my therapist every second possible? I know I'm-I'm fucked up, but I'm not that fragile. I can go to a fucking party, okay?"

"Okay," she says quietly, taking a deep breath with her eyes shut. "I'm just trying to look out for you, James. I'm just trying to be your mom."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm gonna get changed."

"Alright. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

As I pull a shirt over my head, I mourn the relationship I used to have with my mom. How we used to have conversations that didn't always end in fights. It feels like forever ago, when she didn't treat me like glass and I didn't treat her like crap. I know how unfair of me it is to be so rude to her when she's just trying to help, but it's not like I don't know how to take care of myself.

"Leaving now" I text Steve in the back of my Uber. The driver is playing some classical piece, and it makes me a lot less anxious for whatever this party is going to be.

Steve said his roommate was hosting it, that he usually just hung around the edges of these things but that he might have fun with a friend there. A friend. I remember beaming when he referred to me as such. And hey, maybe it'll be awful and Steve and I will just ditch! Have some fun on our own. It'll be fine, I have no reason to be nervous. It'll be fine.

The party is already in full swing by the time I arrive, and I cringe as I step outside the car and feel the thumping base rumble in my bones. Ha, this is fine. I'm fine. I wave goodbye to the Uber driver after thanking him for the ride and shove my hand in my pocket, tensely walking up to the front door.

Do I knock? I feel like I should knock-

My panicky thoughts are interrupted when the door swings open, and a very drunk man I don't recognize bellows, "Hey hey hey, what's going on!" The man engulfs me in a hug, and I scrunch my nose at the smell of whiskey that's just wafting off of him. "Mi casa es tu casa, my little buddy!"

A familiar voice rings out from inside the house, and I smile. "Except that this isn't tu casa, Clint, and I think you need to go lie down." Steve grabs the guy firmly by the shoulders and pulls him away, seeing me in the process. "Oh, hey, Buck! Glad you could make it!"

"So people are already there?" I ask, gesturing to the man who's now stumbling towards a couch and falling face down onto it.

Steve sighs, giving a bitter smile. "Nah, that's just Clint. Don't worry, most people are sober or tipsy at best. For now, at least." He looks out at his living room, which is filled with people laughing and talking loudly, with a mildly irritated expression.

"I'm getting the impression you're not a huge fan of this party..."

"It's fine. Natasha just throws too many of them, and is always too hungover in the morning to help me clean up. And I'm not a huge fan of drunk people. Not that-obviously, people can drink if they want to, but when it gets excessive I get stressed out."

"Family history?"

"Something like that. You want a drink?"

I smile, and step inside fully. "Sounds great."

I follow Steve through the crowded living room into a kitchen, where there's just two people standing around. "So, Natasha's your roommate?"

"Yep. We met senior year of high school, worked at the same Caribou." He chuckles at the memory and opens the fridge, turning to me. "Want anything specific?"

"Eh, whatever you got. I'm not picky."

He hands me a Coors light and leans against the closed fridge as he continues, "She's great, though. Very...spirited. Even though I've only known her for a few years, it's like we've been together forever."

"You guys are dating?" I ask, surprised why I'm so curious.

"No, no, no. No. Just a poor choice of words-oh, hey! There you are, Nat, come meet Bucky!" Steve waves over a gorgeous red head as she walks down the stairs, and she beams at him and quickly obliges.

"Hi," she says with a dazzling smile, "I'm Natasha, I've heard so much about you!" Her eyes lock on my arm (or lack thereof), and I shift uncomfortably.

"Yeah, hey." I turn to Steve, and he smiles reassuringly.

Natasha steps forward and links her arm with Steve's, dropping the fake smile to look at him with exaggerated emotion. "Oh my God, Steve, did you see that Sharon is here?"

"What? Did you invite her?" He turns to face her, dropping the arm she's holding, and I bristle a bit as I'm suddenly shut out of the conversation.

"No! I think she was with a guy, too...I'm not sure who. Are you okay?"

Though Natasha would seem completely sweet to the average onlooker, I can see that she clearly just wants his attention. "Yeah..." Steve responds, "Just surprised, I guess." Natasha takes his hand to "comfort" him, and he squeezes it before letting go and facing me again. "Ex," he says with a tight smile, as if that's a sufficient explanation for the scene I witnessed. Natasha smiles sympathetically as he walks away.

"Him and Sharon were together a while ago," Natasha says, as if I care, "It wasn't exactly a nice breakup, and they haven't talked since. She cheated on him, but he never found out who it was with. Gah, that was so awful for us, I just hope he gets some closure..."

I narrow my eyes and straighten my back. "'So awful for _us?'_ How was it awful for you?"

"Well, Steve and I are just so close, you know, when he hurts I hurt."

I chuckle dryly. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

"What's your problem, Bucky? The fuck did I do to you?"

"Nothing, okay? You're allowed to do whatever you want to get some dick, I have no right to judge."

Natasha opens her mouth widely, shocked. "Excuse me? Steve is my friend, and just because you've known him for-for what? A few weeks? That doesn't mean you get to judge our friendship! YOU DON'T KNOW ME."

"Well, I know your type! Acting all sweet when you need to, faking sympathy and feelings-if you want something, ask for it! Don't try to weasel your way into a guy's pants and act like you're doing nothing wrong, you fucking-"

"Bucky! What are you doing?" Steve yells, interrupting my tirade. I turn to the blond, see his outraged face looking at me.

"I'm just-"

"Jesus Christ, can you go ten minutes without yelling at someone?" Natasha backs away as I shrink, clutch the drink in my hand like it's a life raft. "I know you've got it rough, but that doesn't mean you can be mean to people for no fucking reason! You're-you're unbelievable." He shakes his head and stalks away, leaving me alone in the kitchen, bowing my head in the shame of knowing that he's absolutely right.

I cower my way into the dining room, trying to make my way to the door, but the guy from earlier rams into me and spills my drink. "Hey, buddy ol pal, watch where you're going," the drunk man giggles, shoving me in a way that would be playful if he were sober but is violent instead. The stump of my arm hits the sharp edge of a wall decoration, and I shudder at the feeling of-

-a bullet hitting me, then five more all in the span of a few seconds. I fall to the ground in shock, unable to feel the pain right now but knowing full well that it's about to come. "Sarge!" a voice calls out, but it seems so far away because then there's the sound of gunfire, impossibly wide eyes, fear that's everywhere. "I'm fine," I try to say, but everything just seems bright and fuzzy all of a sudden and shit what's that burning on my arm I think my arm is on fire dear God my arm is on fire "SIR, MY ARM IS ON FIRE!" I scream to the man dragging me away but he doesn't hear me or he doesn't care and the fire starts to become unbearable and they're doing something to my arm what are they doing "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" and I'm suddenly feeling light and sleepy and everything's foggy and they're all looking at me and they're scared and I'm scared and "I'm scared..." I mumble but they don't hear me and the hurt, I think it's fading or maybe I'm dying "am I dying?" and they say something but I can't hear I can't think I can't I can't-

-arms around me. There are arms around me, tight and almost painful. Shushing noises, rocking back and forth? I realize quickly that I'm crying, crying hard, and I'm scared enough that I just burrow myself into those arms, because dear Lord they're better than the battlefield.

My breathing slows down after an unknown amount of time, and I pull back to see Steve looking at me. Embarrassment floods my body and I scramble up, wiping away at the tears on my face quickly. "Shit, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm-shit, you shouldn't have had to see that, fuck-"

"Hey, hey, shh," he soothes, coming forward and hugging me again. "Don't apologize, okay? You're okay. Let's get you home, okay?"

"I was gonna...call an Uber?" I say, but my words are hardly anything with how sleepy I've suddenly become. Exhausted, really, dead on my feet. Steve puts an arm around me wordlessly, and I do nothing but foggily go along as a quiet car ride drifts me into a deep sleep.


	6. Carry Me to the Morning

"Hey, you okay?"

"Just checking in, hope you're doing alright :)"

"Bucky seriously if you don't respond I'm gonna assume you're dead and break into your house to make sure"

I groan as that last message comes in. Steve is...great, obviously. But _fuck,_ is he annoying me right now! I don't need another person to coddle me, treat me like I'm gonna lose it any minute. I quickly type up a response.

"I'm good"

Articulate, straight to the point, genius. I forget about Steve and go back to watching TV.

Okay, but while I'm sitting here, Steve forgotten, will he see me differently now? I mean, that was some pretty vulnerable shit he saw a few days ago. Is it possible for him to even want me when I'm this fucked up? Not that-obviously, we're just friends. We have to be, because anything more is far too easy to lose.

I've mostly gotten used to that idea, that we'll never be lovers and I'll just have to find someone else someday. Mostly. I'm still working on it, y'know, cementing that belief into my empty head, but soon enough I won't have to think of him like that ever again. Nope, no more traitorous thoughts, I'll have them under control. Under lock and key.

I was supposed to start work today. It almost makes me sick, how disappointed in myself I am. I was supposed to start a JOB-entry level, granted, but still, a JOB-and start getting on with my life, but fucking flashbacks and fucking panic attacks just had to make it impossible for me to be anything but this disgusting pile of broken pieces I am.

I try to tune into this dumb show Becca's making me watch, some goofy little sitcom about life after death. My eyes are half closed, and I grumble when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Fucking Steve, don't wanna talk to you about my problems. I take the thing and toss it onto the carpet, try to engage my brain in the TV again.

I sharp pain, though, makes that difficult. I gasp, and look at my left arm. It's not there, I know it's not there, but fucking hell, I just got shot. I grab the stump and groan, eyes squeezed shut. _C'mon, it's not real, there's nothing there, idiot..._

But it sure feels like there's something there. More like six little metal something's, buried into my arm. "Ow..." I moan out like a child, letting myself wallow in the fact that this hurts like hell and there's nothing I can do about it.

Another sharper pain hits me, and I yelp. At the same moment, I hear the door open. Footsteps rush towards me, and my mom drops her grocery bags to cradle me in her arms. "Bucky? Bucky, baby, talk to me, what's-"

"Hurts, Ma," I whine, and scrunch up my face. She simply cradles me, though I can practically hear the gears in her brain turning as she tries to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

"I'm sorry, baby, I got you, Mama's got you," she croons, "I got-oh, honey, is it phantom pains again? Sweetheart, it's okay, it'll pass, just hang on for a little while. It'll pass, I promise."

I grunt as a response and let my body go limp, just allowing her to hold me while waves of pain flood my body. Eventually it fades away, and I'm left lying corpse-like in her arms. "Thank you..." I mumble, and she hums as she continues to stroke my hair.

Phantom pains. They fucking suck, but they're better than flashbacks...except for when they trigger flashbacks. Yep, I'm doing great.

I wish I could've started my job. It's at Target, it's nothing, but it's something. If I wasn't so goddamn broken I would've been able to be there right now, instead of curled up in my mom's arms...

But what can you do.

"You're good? All due respect buck I'm pretty sure you're not good. Can u just talk to me? Call or text or SOMETHING???? I'm kinda worried over here"

Yeah, Steve does deserve a real response to that question. "Just had a lot of flashbacks the last couple of days, I'm kind of shitty but don't worry k" I text back, getting an immediate response. "Ok :( tell me how I can help or tell me to fuck off whatever would be best for you"

"I'm gonna tell you to fuck off, but in the kindest way possible. Just need a little space until my brain gets back to normal" Even if I doubt it'll ever be back to normal, I won't make Steve watch me plummet. No, he deserves better than that.

Except he won't get better than that, because I'm a selfish ass. After an unwanted trip to Afghanistan circa four years ago, I can't take it any more. I pull myself off the floor and get a glass of water, chug it and toss it into the sink. Nope. Hydrating isn't making me feel normal.

I pace, then, hoping to get out some of the antsy energy overtaking me in the wake of the flashback. No, that makes it worse, that makes it a lot worse. Fuck. I feel my fingernails dig into my arms (you're not supposed to do that Mark said you're not supposed to do that) and suddenly feel sick, was that water poisoned? Did I forget to purify the water? That'll get you killed, Sarge, gotta make the water clean before you drink it or else you'll get killed-

It sloshes in my stomach (think you're gonna die of poison pretty sure they poisoned the water), and I start to feel a little dizzy. More than a little, actually, and I slump onto the couch. Yeah, okay, that's better. Not good (eyes up Barnes you'll never make it through Basic if you can't learn to fire a goddamn gun), but better. Not good at all, but a slightly improved (danger danger eyes UP) shitty. 

And I'm pacing again, because if I stay on the couch I'm gonna be killed. Fucking obliterated, clear target. Six more bullets in the arm they missed the first time, FUCK. Where's Becca-? Friend's house, right, extroverted little whore. (that's mean Buck don't say that) Who else? Ma (never loved you doesn't care no one cares you don't deserve care) isn't really ideal, maybe (Steve? sure fag involve the guy Lord knows you haven't burdened him enough) Steve would understand. Right? He _has_ been (wishing you would put a gun in your mouth and fucking die) checking up a lot the past couple of days, maybe-

I grab my phone before I lose my courage (like you ever had any in the first place you little) and click on his contact (don't take your eyes away from the window soldier they'll), typing out a (suicide note, dare you to write one) simple message asking him to come over. It feels (weak, pathetic) stupid but maybe (never) he'll be able to (eyes UP) help (NEVER).

Fuck, I hope he can, because I don't know how long I can last (you won't last three days on the battlefield if you can't learn how to reload quicker) without (blow your fucking brains out) blowing my fucking brains out.

I think I start to lose (always losing never gonna make it if you can't) my ability (barnes? shit bucky are you okay we need a medic over here SHIT I'm sorry bucky I gotta drag you I'm sorry I'm so sorry) to think (coulda just stayed home you little shit but you had to ship out you had to) clearly (never deserved love never deserved anything you got you ungrateful little bastard deserve to fucking die that's what you deserve)

There's a knock on the door, quick and impatient, and I realize I should probably get that. I stumble towards the front of the house (weak) and open it up, revealing a concerned looking Steve (never cared never will). "Bucky, hey, are you okay?" he asks (doesn't really wanna know), concerned (liar), and I can't help but shake my head as a response.

"No, I-could you stay here tonight? Please?" (weak)

He nods quickly and envelops me in a hug, shockingly warm and gloriously comforting. "Yeah, Buck, of course." After a moment of letting myself be held, I reluctantly pull away and lead Steve into the living room. "Dude," he says quietly, reacting to the mess I accidently made in my manic state.

"Yeah, sorry-"

"No, no sorrys. Lemme clean this up, okay? Sit on the couch, just relax for a minute."

"Okay..."

Although I don't enjoy having nothing to occupy my hands, it's kind of nice to watch Steve clean. He's gotta be a neat freak or something, with how quickly he gets my living room back in order. I simply observe lazily, eyes rolling from side to side as they lock onto his form. In a matter of minutes, the room is cleaned (huh that's actually kind of nice) and Steve's sitting next to me on the couch. "What would help?" he asks, "What can I do?"

"Umm..." I'm at a loss for words, really. It's hard enough to ask for help, much less identify and articulate how someone else can help you (dumbass why can't you decide). I start to wring my hands in my lap (c'mon just answer him he needs to know) and try to think of (idiot this is why you don't deserve love) something (?????)-

"Hey, that's okay. Can I hug you? Probably should've asked the first time, but-" I interrupt his rambling by surging forward, wrapping my arms around Steve and sighing. "Okay," he says quietly, reciprocating and burying his face in my neck. I just breathe for a moment, and try not to think about the fact that we're very close right now and if I got a boner that would suck ass. "Do you wanna talk about it?" he whispers.

I pull away to consider it, but realize (that's right keep it to yourself) that I wouldn't even know how to explain the shitshow that's going on inside my head (other people have it worse stop being selfish) right now. "No, sorry. Can we just-I'm really tired, Steve. But whenever I try to sleep I just-but it's so much, I shouldn't ask you to-I mean, we don't even know each other that well, so-"

"Do you want me to stay here tonight, Bucky?"

Uncomfortable, I nod. "I mean-you don't have to. I get...nightmares, bad ones, and that's way too much to put on you, so seriously you have no obligation to-"

"I know I have no obligation to stay here, Bucky. Technically, I had no obligation to come in the first place. I'm here because I care about you, and you need help right now. That's okay, Bucky, it's okay to need help. I'm devastated that you're in this much pain, but I'm more than happy to do my part in easing it." 

Fuck, Steve, that's... "Thank you."

He smiles, and squeezes my shoulder good naturedly. "Yeah, pal. Where's your bedroom, upstairs? If you're tired, you probably wanna sleep in a bed."

"Yeah..."

I lead him up the stairs, which feels very weird. You know, since I'm thinking about him (fag) in _that_ context. I pause in the doorframe (weak), but Steve gently nudges me inside. Silently we go to the bed, and he leads me into a laying position. It feels kind of embarrassing, to be honest, but when he lies down beside me it feels like destiny (cheesy faggot piece of shit).

I just lie there, eyes open, until Steve turns and puts his arms around me. "You can go to sleep, it's okay," he murmurs, and that's all I need. My eyes start to droop shut as I melt into his embrace, sigh lightly and (fmghghhh) feel my anxiety fade into the background.

Fuck, he's a good friend. I don't know if I deserve him, but Lord help me, he is. I swear to any God out there that I'll return this affection if dreamless sleep carries me to the morning. And if it doesn't, I'll take that as my penance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long, PTSD tings. :) I'll try to get back on my update schedule, hopefully post even more often, because I truly love every single one of you reading this and it makes me happy to make you happy.  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


	7. People and Motives, Men at War

"It takes courage to reach out, okay? I know that what you're going through is absolute shit, but admitting that you need help is the first step to getting it."

"I never said I needed help. Ma's the one who made me go to therapy."

"Sure, but we've made some progress, right? You've told me things, and we've done what we can to help make this transition easier."

"Sorry, Mark, but I haven't told you much."

"Why not?"

"Huh?"

"Why haven't you told me much? Just the 'therapy is for the weak' bullshit, or are you scared if actually getting help?"

"I don't-"

"I'm not trying to target you or anything, Bucky, I just wonder why we haven't gotten very far in these sessions. I feel like there's a lot that I don't know about you-which is fine, you are perfectly entitled to keep things to yourself-but we're doing this to help you recover. Right? So how is your trauma serving you, what's making it keep you from getting help?"

"I am getting help. I'm here, right?"

"That's true! That's very true, Bucky, but what do you gain from our sessions?"

"..."

"That's not a rhetorical question, I'm genuinely wondering what you gain from coming here."

"I mean...I dunno. I guess I can...understand that the shit I'm feeling is normal?"

"That's great. What is some of that shit you're feeling?"

"..."

"I hate to do this, I really really do, but your mom told me that you've been having a rough week-"

"What, so you trust my Ma more than you trust me?"

"No, but she does have some insight into what's going on in your house, and if she's noticing that-"

"Look, it's just-I've just been having a lot of flashbacks, that's all."

"That's all? Bucky, you said that our sessions helped you feel like your experiences were normal. And while flashbacks are normal, that doesn't mean they aren't really fucking awful. It's okay to say that, I promise it doesn't make you any less of a man."

"I don't wanna say they're bad or whatever, though, because I have them all the time. You know? So then I'd just be saying..."

"..."

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Sorry, Bucky, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just waiting for you to continue."

"Well, I'm not gonna. I'm great, okay? I'm normal."

"Three a day. That's how many your mom has seen. That isn't normal, Bucky. It's okay that it's happening, and we can work on ways to cope and move on, but the first step is admitting that having three or more flashbacks a day is a problem."

"I'm fine, though, I'm managing it."

"So you're working, then? You started your job?"

"Jesus, Mark, you don't gotta be so aggressive."

"I'm not trying to be aggressive, I'm trying to be blunt. We cannot proceed if you refuse to acknowledge what's going on."

"Then lets not proceed! Let's fucking quit, call it a day! Not like this shit is doing anything."

"Our sessions don't make you feel like what you're going through is normal, then? This is a two person process, I can't just snap my fingers and take the trauma away. The trauma will never go away, but I can help you learn to live with it if you just open up about it."

"Stop trying to pressure me into talking to you, I don't have to tell you shit if I don't want to."

"No, you don't, but wouldn't it be nice to tell _someone?_ Someone who understands, who can just listen to you?"

"..."

"That's why I'm here, Bucky. To listen. You're holding so much inside right now, you're fit to burst. You're already bursting, to be honest, and it's not healthy. You're running the show, here. You can tell me to shut up, and I will. If you want, this session can just be you talking for two hours without me saying a word. It could just be us meditating silently. It can be whatever you want, so long as you understand that I just want to help you."

"Pretty sure you just want my money. You're getting paid for this shit, right?"

"Yeah, I am. Wanna know why? Because you can't help others if you're not taking care of yourself. This is my livelihood, and I need to be able to make a living if I want to do my job. That doesn't mean that I don't care, that I don't want you to get better."

"Mmkay."

"..."

"Why aren't you saying anything?"

"Why aren't you?"

"God, stop being so fucking combative."

"Combat is what you know. I'm trying to meet you at your level."

"That seems counter intuitive. Aren't you supposed to help me get out of soldier mode?"

"Yeah, I'm trying to help you get back to civilian life. But you aren't there right now, you're still in the body of a man at war. Am I correct in saying that?"

"I mean...I dunno. I guess?"

"..."

"No, but-I've been home for almost nine months. I shouldn't still be-I know that I'm safe, okay? I know that I'm not in danger, it's just hard to remember that sometimes when the flashbacks get bad."

"That makes sense. When those flashbacks come, they put you back on the battlefield, right? And sometimes its hard to distinguish between the past and the present."

"Well, no. I know the difference."

"Sure, of course you do. But when your brain decides to fuck you over and put you back there, its hard to tell."

"Yeah, I guess."

"It's okay to feel unsafe. In a way, you're still at war. This time, though, the enemy is your mind. And the shitty thing about that is that when you fight yourself, you lose either way."

"What, so I'm not gonna be able to recover? Is that what you're saying?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all. You will recover, Bucky. I'm saying that we're trying to make peace, not obliterate the enemy. Because if you try to fight the part of you that's still in Afghanistan, you're just gonna bash yourself to pieces. Recovery isn't victory, it's a white flag. It's living with the enemy."

"But I don't want to live with it. I want it to go away."

"And I wish I could take it away. I wish it was never there in the first place, so that you could just live a life of peace. But you have trauma, Bucky, and that's okay. If you didn't have trauma, how many lives would've been lost? How many people wouldn't have been saved by you if you never went to war?"

"I killed more people than I saved."

"Maybe. That's the ugly thing about war. But why did you go in the first place?"

"To serve my country."

"Did you go so that you could kill people, or so that you could save them?"

"Save, obviously."

"Right. And in the process of saving lives, some were lost. That isn't on you, Bucky, you were trying to stay alive and follow orders."

"So I'm free from blame because I was following orders? Pretty fucked up logic, Mark."

"You were doing a noble thing. You were putting yourself in harms way to pursue a greater goal of peace. And that meant that people got hurt."

"I shouldn't be let off the hook, though. I'm the one who pulled the trigger, I'm the one who's responsible for fucking murder. And you want me to just-what? To say 'oh, well that's not my fault, I'm one of the good guys!' and move on? I'm not gonna do that. I'm not gonna forgive myself for the things I've done."

"You deserve forgiveness."

"Pfft, sure. Okay. If you say so."

"I understand the sarcasm, but it's true. I forgive you, Bucky. You did what you had to do, and I forgive you for that."

"..."

"Your Ma forgives you. So does your sister."

"But they're my family, they have to."

"No, actually, they don't. If someone turns out to be a serial killer, does their family have to stand by their side? Do they have to forgive that person and support them?"

"...no."

"No. You aren't a serial killer. You haven't committed any violent actions because you wanted to, because you found joy in it. Your family has no obligation to forgive you for what you've done, even though you don't need to ask for forgiveness, but I promise you that they _do_ forgive you. They do."

"I don't forgive me."

"And that's okay. I wouldn't expect you to, right now. But that's what we're gonna work on, forgiveness. Accepting that the things you did were necessary and you don't need to feel guilty for them."

"And that'll make the flashbacks go away?"

"It might help them be less intense, and less frequent. I can't say that they'll go away, though, especially since I don't really know what they're about."

"I don't need to tell you what they're about, you don't have a right to know that."

"Hey, no need to get defensive. I'm not asking you to tell me anything, okay? You can tell me what you're comfortable telling me."

"Whatever."

"Seriously, Bucky, I don't mean to pressure you-"

"But you do, though! You want me to tell you every little thing I think so that you can dissect it and tell me that I'm a fucked up mess."

"You're not-"

"And I don't want to be-I know I'm a mess, okay? But I can handle it. I don't need some so-called professional telling me everything that's wrong with me, I don't need you to make me into some victim or whatever."

"But you are a victim. You have endured terrible things and what you've gone through-"

"The kids I killed are the victims, not me! Fucking KIDS, Mark! You think I should just forget about that? You're a soulless bastard."

"You were a kid, too. Seventeen, Bucky, you were seventeen when you started training-"

"I was older when I actually shipped out, though-"

"You were still young. You still had a lot to learn, and a lot to experience before you could truly be considered an adult. You were a kid, Bucky, you were a victim just as much as everyone else."

"But I had a choice. I chose to enlist, I chose that life, so I don't have a right to-to victimize myself after the fact."

"Why not? I married a woman when I was in my twenties, a woman I loved. I chose her. I knew that she was bipolar, and I knew that she struggled with substance abuse. I chose to be with her because I loved her, because I thought that the good things about being with her far outweighed the bad. When she started becoming violent, was I a victim? Was it my fault that she hit me, just because I chose to stay with her? Because I chose to marry her in the first place?"

"No, but that's different."

"How is it different?"

"You never hit her back. You never-"

"Yes, Bucky, I did. At first I just took it, but after several months passed I got angry. She threw a plate at me, and I punched her in the face. We got divorced after that, but I did hit her back, Bucky."

"But that was self defense, it doesn't count."

"And what you did wasn't self defense?"

"No, it-the people I hurt were in the same situation as me. They were soldiers, just like I was. They weren't attacking me because they wanted to, they were attacking me because they had to."

"Did you want to hurt them?"

"No, Mark, why do you keep saying that? Do you want me to say yes or something?"

"I want you to see that this isn't on you. Everyone on that battlefield was a victim. None of you wanted to inflict pain on one another."

"Well, some people wanted to."

"Were you one of those people?"

"No."

"No, you weren't. You were a victim. You fought in self defense-"

"I was the one attacking, sometimes."

"That's why your experience is more complicated than my story. War is complicated. There isn't a good and bad side, there's just people and their motives. But your motives were good, Bucky, which is why you deserve peace. You deserve recovery. You deserve forgiveness."

"It doesn't feel like I do."

"I know. I know it doesn't, and it might not for a while. But I promise, you do."

"...I'm sorry. About your wife."

"Thank you. It was a long time ago. It took me a while to be okay again, to trust people, but I got there. You're gonna get there too, I promise."

"Sure. If you say so, Mark."


	8. Battlefields New and Old

I'm doing better, I think. Mark might be a dumb bitch that I hate...but he does make the occasional good point. We talked about some ways to handle flashbacks, like writing down that I'm safe and home over and over, that Becca and Ma are safe too. I've got way too many sheets of paper that say that hanging around the house, but it does help a little bit.

Some days I wish I had never gone into the military. Today is one of those days. I'm going out for drinks with Sam and a couple of his friends, and I'm excited. Is this what life would've been? Could I have just hung out with friends and talked about our boring corporate jobs? Talked about maybe going on road trips together or meeting up again sometime soon? 

I don't really know if that's what people do, I've been so disconnected from normal social circles for a long time now. But that's what I imagine people talk about when they go out for drinks.

After an embarrassing amount of time spent stressing over my outfit, I make my way to some bar near Sam's place. He's waiting outside for me, as requested, and offers a big grin and wave when he sees me coming towards him.

"Hey, Sarge!" he yells, prompting a smile from me, "What's happenin?"

"Hey, Sam." I let him sling an arm around my shoulders and lead me inside, towards a table where-shit.

Natasha sits there talking to a guy I vaguely recognize, and her red hair falls over a shoulder as she turns to look at me and Sam approach. Her eyes narrow when she sees me, but the man she's sitting with immediately grins. "Sammy!" he bellows, standing up and enveloping Sam (and therefore me) in a hug. "And...I don't know you."

"This is Bucky. Bucky, this is Clint."

Drunk guy at that stupid party. Right. I smile politely at Clint, who continues to beam back. "Nice to meet you. Well, we kind of already met-"

"Oh, yeah. You okay, man? I don't really remember that party, but I feel like there was something going on with you." 

My smile freezes in place, but I keep it on my face nonetheless. "Yep, all good. I think I'm gonna sit." I take my place as far away from Natasha...which is difficult, seeing as we're sitting at a round table. Clint immediately picks up his beer, plopping down between me and Natasha.

Sam smiles widely and sits on my other side. "Didn't know you met Buck already, Clint, that's cool. Nat, Bucky is one of my friends from-"

"We've met as well. It was my party that they met at." Her bright green eyes survey me with a cool stare, but Sam doesn't seem to notice the ice between us. "Wow, that's awesome!" he says, "Don't know why I didn't get an invite, though..."

"You were visiting your mom. It wasn't too fun, in any case. Steve left early with Bucky."

Sam's eyes widen comically, and he looks at me. "Wait, your Steve is her Steve? Roommate Steve is also new friend Steve? How did I not know this?"

"Uh, I dunno," I chuckle nervously, "Guess I just didn't realize you all hung out."

Clint burps loudly before answering, "We don't. Sam and I just know Steve because of Natasha, you and Nat are the only ones who actually KNOW him know him. The three of you would be more likely to hang out than us and Steve."

Haha, no. "Wow. Well, he's really nice, so..."

"He sure is." Natasha smiles at me, and I can't help but feel like she wants to stick a fork in my eye. What's your problem, lady? "It really was too bad that you had to leave, though, that party was gonna be really fun."

I look over at Sam, feeling like a piece of shit roasted on a stick, and hope he catches the vibe. He does, I think, and says, "You host so many parties, Nat, and they're all great. I'm sure your guests had a great time. You can always throw another one, though, maybe invite me..." He nudges her in the side, and she laughs lightly.

"Very true. Falcon will come save the day!" Clint lets out a booming laugh as Sam hides his head, and I frown in confusion. Nat looks at me, almost like an afterthought, and says, "Oh, uh, just an inside joke."

"Right." I start feeling a little uncomfortable, and stand up. "I'm gonna get a drink." No one acknowledges my statement, too busy being the best of friends. I kind of feel sick, and suddenly wonder if it would be a better idea to just go home and call it a night.

No, but I'm not gonna do that. This is my new battlefield, bars and uncomfortable conversations. I may not be armed with much, but I sure as hell ain't giving up. I survey the area as I wait for my drink, and catch a woman staring at the stump of my arm. I shift awkwardly, and turn away.

"...walks up to me and tells me he pissed his fucking pants!" Sam's saying in between bouts of giggles as I return to the table, and the others start laughing loudly. "Oh, Bucky's back! I was just talking about one of the kids from the school I work at, he-"

"Long story short, he pissed himself," Natasha interrupts. "Where do you work, Bucky?"

Is she purposefully picking a sore subject? "Uh, nowhere at the moment. I was gonna start a job like two weeks ago, but it didn't end up working out."

"That's too bad, man. Keep it up, though, I'm sure there's plenty of places wanting to hire a hot guy like you!" Clint raises his glass to me before downing it, and I can't help but grin.

Natasha doesn't smile, though, looking slightly concerned instead. "Hey, how many of those have you had, Barton?"

"Don't worry about it. Worry about-about-fuck, what's a good nickname for a guy with one arm? Long John Silver? Wait he's missing a leg-whatever. Worry about Bucky, he's still on his first drink!" Clint laughs loudly at his own joke, and I realize very quickly that his happy go lucky attitude is only here because he's drunk.

Sam puts a hand on Clint's shoulder, undeterred when Clint brushes it off. "Why don't you let me drive you home, man. I'll let you pick the music, kay?"

"Nah, Sammy, we're having a blast! Right, guys?" He raises his eyebrows to me and Natasha, neither of us changing our hardened expressions. "Fuckin' pussies. I can _drink,_ okay? You don't gotta-I'm an adult, I can drink if I want to!"

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Just let me drive you home, okay?" Sam pleads, giving Clint puppy eyes. Clint looks back, and groans.

"Fine, whatever. Fuck you."

I watch Sam help a stumbling Clint outside, then turn to look at Natasha, who's staring at me. "What?"

She sighs, and rolls her eyes. "Nothing."

"Well, you've been passive aggressive to me this whole time, so wanna explain why? It's not like I've done anything wrong." I can't help but snap at her, my irritation reaching a peak.

"Right, because calling me a slut and a fraud at my party was totally fine? _Excuse me_ for being a little upset by that!"

My eyes widen, and I bristle. "I never called you a slut. But I don't regret what I said to you, okay? Steve deserves friends that are honest with him about their feelings. It isn't fair for you to try and subtly make a move on him when he clearly doesn't think of you that way."

"You're one to talk," she scoffs, "How many booty calls have you made to that guy? How many times have you made him drop whatever he's doing just to take care of your sorry ass? You're the pathetic one, not me."

"I'm not gay, Natasha. I don't think of Steve in that way at all."

"Sure, sure."

"I don't, okay?" I'm really angry now, and I can't help but make a fist under the table. "I'm just trying to take care of my friend, okay? Fucking-accept that. Stop trying to make it seem like I'm trying to take your man or something."

Natasha raises her eyebrows at me and crosses her arms. "What, so you wanna tell me that if I did just ask him out and he said yes, you'd be fine with that?"

"Yes! Do what you want, just be honest while you're doing it!"

"You're such a fucking liar. I mean, really. You made him take you home in the middle of my party, you made him rush over to your house when we were supposed to go see a movie together-"

"I didn't know that you guys had plans," I say guiltily, "And I didn't make him do anything. I just asked."

She looks away from me and takes a large sip of her drink. "Sure, whatever. I'm just saying, you're clearly trying to get in the guy's pants-"

 _"I'm straight,"_ I say loudly, drawing the attention of a few people at nearby tables, "I'm not interested in Steve, okay? Stop saying that I am!"

"Just stay out of my life. You're stealing him from me, and I'm not okay with that. So back the fuck away." With that, Natasha stands and saunters out the door.

Later that night, I find myself lying in bed, thoughts churning. She's wrong, obviously. I don't like Steve-not in that way. I can't. And even if I did, I wouldn't act on it.

Unless...well, what if he was here with me, right? And he's sitting on this bed, and we're just laughing up a storm, and then he leans in to kiss me, and it feels so fucking right-

I stop myself immediately, balling my fist in the sheets. But my mind goes back to that little fantasy, that lovely face drawing ever nearer to mine-

-and suddenly it isn't Steve's face anymore it's His and they're all there watching and the shame and the fucking horror as I can do nothing I can do NOTHING as they watch Him tear me apart I'm NOTHING as I'm torn apart and this thing that always felt so right is turned into a nightmare I can't wake up from and His face is too close and His breath is too hot and it's like fire spreading through me but not the good kind not the good kind at ALL because it hurts so fucking bad but it's a deserved hurt because this is what you get "this is what you get for betraying me" "this is what you deserve for being a fag" "for being useless" "for being you"-

I jerk away and stand up immediately, hand tearing away the clothes that suddenly feel WAY too tight. "Everything okay?" Becca asks as I brush past her in the hallway, but I don't answer. I slam the bathroom door behind me and lock it, turning on the shower even before I've gotten all my clothes off.

No matter how hard I scrub, though, skin becoming raw and red, He's still there. He's still there and I thought He was gone, I thought it was done, but I was fucking wrong and it shows. This is what you get, this is what you get, this is what you get. That mantra plays on repeat in my mind as I scrub away my skin.

I don't know how long I just stand there on top of my soaking wet pants, scrubbing, before I hear a knock at the door. "Buck?" Becca says loudly, "Bucky, open the fucking door."

"I'm fine," I yell back, but my voice is too broken to be convincing.

I can practically see the sarcastic look on her face as she responds, "Uh huh, open the door. Seriously, or I'll get the key from the kitchen. Ma tell you that? We got a key for every room in the house before you came home, in case something bad happened and you wouldn't open up."

I sigh and reluctantly turn off the water, wrapping a towel around my waist and unlocking the door. She opens it immediately, and looks over my red and slightly bloody skin with a clinical eye. "There, you happy?" I say irritably, before moving to shut the door.

"No, actually. Come to bed, now. Let's get you in something warm, something soft on the inside. Does that sound like it would help?"

Huh. Actually, it kind of does. I nod dumbly and she leads me to my bedroom, pulling the softest clothes I own out of my closet and handing them to me in silence. When I wake up in the morning, she's sleeping next to me, and it feels right.

Even if He's still in the back of my mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a shitty ending, sorry, but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless. Let me know your thoughts!  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


	9. Take Your Best Guest

So it's like this.

You go through something, right? And that something is so fucking awful that you can't talk about it, not even to yourself. But it doesn't go away, it's just hiding, and it'll decide to come out and play right when you least expect it.

The world knows my story. This is something that I've already come to terms with. I will never be just me anymore, I will always be the guy who lost his arm in the war, such a shame, such a hero. I've dealt with enough of that bullshit that I can just tune it out.

Other things are harder to accept, though. Like Him. He exists, okay? I might not want to admit it, but That was something that happened. I said it. And so I think that I don't need to say more, because if I say what happened then it was real and I don't think I can handle the idea of That having been real. Of Him being real.

It's almost glamorous in comparison, the murder and blood and violence I saw. You think you've seen the worst of humanity until something new comes along. Until someone like Him comes along. I'm not afraid of Him, not anymore. Hard to be. But...

He isn't the only person who could hurt me. The things that happened before, they could happen again. And so I can't take that chance, not when I'm already this broken. I can't let Steve and Him become one and the same.

Was it nice to ghost Steve these past few days? No. But I don't feel bad about it, because I need some space to fucking get over myself and get over him. Get over Him, too. 

Becks has been nice about it, made me sandwiches and stayed in bed with me when I couldn't get up, but I know she's concerned. I don't like it when she's concerned. Mostly because her concern turns into irritation real quick and I don't wanna deal with that right now. But then again, I might not have a choice.

"Up and at 'em, soldier boy!" she yells, banging two pans together and jumping on my bed.

I look up in awe, horrified by the scene in front of me straight out of some trashy movie about teenage girls helping each other overcome their tiny little problems. "What the FUCK, Rebecca!"

"Talk or walk, pal! Either you tell me what's going on or I keep making noise until you get out of bed!"

I groan loudly and pull a pillow over my head, only to have it pulled away from me easily. "Becks, come on! I'm _fine,_ stop fucking-"

"Nope! You're not fine, dumbass, and I'm sick of your bullshit!" she bangs the pans even louder, and I let out an honest to God scream of frustration. "There it is, let it out! Tell me what's going on, or I swear I will keep doing this for-"

"I don't have to tell you anything! Shut up!"

To my surprise, she does, dropping the pans and letting them clatter to the ground with a noise that makes me jump and cringe. "Yeah, you do, actually. Do you know how fucking difficult it is to help you when you refuse to help yourself? You went through some shit, I get that. You lost an arm, and that's life changing and awful. But _I can't do this alone._ I can't carry you to mental stability, I can only hold your hand while you walk there."

"Whatever," I grumble, pulling the pillow back over my head. I then let out an outraged, "Hey!" as she immediately pulls it away and throws it across the room.

"No. Not whatever. You are having a mental fucking breakdown, and I can't do anything about it. As your sister, one of the only people left on this Earth who has an active interest in helping you, that sucks. Tell me what's going on right now or I swear to God-"

"Did you not read anything about how to deal with veterans?" I sneer, tone so nasty it almost makes me sick as the words come out of my mouth in a sour ooze, "You don't know a fucking thing about me, you don't get to-"

Becca snorts, cutting me off immediately. "Yeah, Buck, I don't. Wanna know why? Because you won't tell me. You won't even tell your therapist! How did you lose your arm, James? What did you see all those years, what happened to you that was so fucking awful that you can't even give a damn about your own family anymore-"

"I do give a damn. That's not-I care about you so fucking much, I just..."

"I know you're having a rough time," she says, expression softening and voice lowering, "But that isn't an excuse to self destruct and leave us all here to watch. This doesn't just suck for you. So you need to pull yourself together-if not for your own sake then for mine and Ma's."

I squirm a little at that, guilt and anger dancing furiously in my stomach. "I don't-I'm not trying to make things hard for you."

"I know that. But you are. God's honest truth, pal, sorry. So, what do you wanna do? If you want to stay in this bed, you need to tell me why you've been stuck in it for days so I can understand and help you. If you can't share, that's fine, but then you need to get up and take steps to help yourself."

She looks right at me with a piercing gaze, and I consider my options. I don't think-I know that I'm not ready to talk about Him yet. I could lie to her, tell her some little story about a dead kid or something, but Becks deserves better than that. So...

So I stand up, and see her face light up. "I think I'm going to make us some lunch," I say, "What are you hungry for? I don't really have a preference."

She just smiles.

I'm almost spiteful after that little intervention, purposefully taking steps to help myself to prove to Becca that I can. Mark would probably call this "the wrong path to the right destination", but what does Mark know? This is me being a petty bitch and trying to prove my superiority to a younger sibling.

So I find myself texting Steve. We usually send each other dumb shit throughout the day (I'm a huge fan of Steve's rants about his professors), but that all stopped a few days ago when I started ignoring him for no reason at all.

He treats the conversation like there was no mysterious three day gap where I refused to interact with him, and I'm grateful for that. I've already established that I can't even tell my sister about Him, so I sure as hell can't tell Steve. "Wanna come over to my place?" he asks. I say yes, asking Becks to drive me so she can see that I'm being emotionally healthy and shit.

Steve's grin is contagious when he lets me inside, and I can't help but return it. "Hey! Is Natasha around?" I ask under the guise of being a good friend, but he sees right through me.

"Don't worry, Bucky, she's at work right now. We've got the house to ourselves."

That statement sends butterflies soaring through my stomach, but I shoot them down quickly. Nope, can't have any of that today. Or any day, for that matter. "Cool, what do you wanna do?"

"Uh, I dunno. I kind of just invited you over to see you, I didn't have a plan or anything."

I smile widely. "Gorging ourselves on whatever's in your pantry and comedy movies it is."

We're soon situated in his living room, which is actually pretty nice now that I can see it outside of a party. "How did you and Natasha afford this place?" I ask.

"Uh, she's got a lot of money. Don't really know why, don't really wanna ask. She and her husband bought it like five years ago, and I'm just doing my part in paying the mortgages now that I live here too."

Husband? "Wait, if she's married-?"

"Widow. He died of stomach cancer three years ago." Steve says this so nonchalantly, even though those words are almost sickeningly awful.

"That's-shit. Wait, how old is Natasha? What-"

"I don't really wanna tell too much of her story without her consent," Steve says apologetically, "But she's 25. They got married straight out of high school, and-sorry, I really don't wanna share her personal life with-"

"No, no, I completely understand. You have no need to be sorry, _I'm_ sorry for pushing you. Let's just watch this movie, yeah?" Steve nods thankfully, and pushes the play button. I watch his face as the movie starts, see his content smile be replaced by a look of gentle concentration. _Eyes front, soldier._ I turn to look at the screen.

Christopher Guest is my all time favorite director, so I'm practically giddy sharing him with Steve. Steve, who is the worst movie talker in _existence._ "Wait, so did she just marry him for the money?" "Awww, that dog is so cute." "He looks just like my grandpa!" It's a good thing I don't mind answering his questions, because otherwise this would be hella annoying.

Steve's laugh is contagious, like sunshine being let out of a bottle to be spilled on the people around him. I'm so grateful he wanted to watch a comedy, too, because then I get to hear that laugh over and over again. Even though I've seen this movie at least five times, he makes me laugh at it, too.

I'm not sure if it's just my imagination, but it kind of seems like Steve is moving closer to me as the movie goes on. I don't shy away, the dumb slut I am, and even go so far as to lean against him when our sides touch. I sneak a glance, and see a small smile resting on his face.

Once the credits start rolling, Steve says, "So are there-" I turn to look at him, and our faces are just inches apart. He clears his throat before continuing, "There are more movies by this guy, right? That one, uh, that was good." I don't look away from his face, almost like we're competing to see who breaks first, and pretend to think for a moment.

"Yeah, yeah. There's....hm. Waiting for Guffman is pretty good, if you wanna watch that one next..."

"Sure." Neither of us move for a prolonged moment, until Steve's face flushes a little and he turns to grab the remote. "Right. Waiting for Guffman. Sounds good."

I face the screen again, feeling almost disappointed. But that's-I'm not disappointed, I'm the opposite! I get to spend time with my pal Steve, and that's pretty damn great. I almost subconsciously shift away from him as we start the second movie, and he does the same. I try not to be sad when I notice that there's almost a foot of space between us by the end of the film.

That space doesn't extend to our conversation, though, which flows easily as we watch the movie. Because we're friends, and friends don't need to be touching to have a good time. We laugh loudly at the ridiculousness onscreen, and I listen to Steve's theories and comments happily. It's good.

It suddenly hits me, halfway through, that I've actually made a friend. I came back from war, and I made a friend. That's pretty fucking cool, in all honesty, and it makes my grin even wider. Makes my laughter fill this living room with no apologies. Makes me feel pretty damn happy for the first time in a while.

I stay at Steve's for hours after that, talking and eating way more of his food than I thought I ever could. I'm shocked over and over again by his kindness, his forgiveness. Not once does he bring up the three days I spent ghosting him, which almost makes me want to address them and apologize. Almost. I don't, but I hope he understands that I'm sorry nonetheless.

With Steve, things are different. He doesn't treat me like I'm some kind of victim, or a villain. He doesn't demand to know things, or wish that I acted like the guy I was before I enlisted. He just...accepts me. And sweet Jesus, is it wonderful.

Even if he's my friend from a foot away, I'll never stop being grateful for the fact that he's my friend at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit rushed and a bit trash, hope you enjoyed nonetheless. As always, I appreciate any feedback!  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


	10. The Past Has Passed, Have You?

Sam Wilson has a lot of problems.

There was the whole thing with Riley. I actually didn't find that out until a few days ago, about how Sam started pining over his best friend, Riley. From what I can tell, they were pretty cool. Badass, but in a gentle sort of way. Wish I could be like that-

Anyways. Sam got fucked up when Riley died, started wondering if he was worth everything he got. (He was, he is, you are, Sammy.) I feel like an ass saying this, but it was kind of a relief when Sam told me about all the ways he's messed up. 

I knew about his dad, heard about that situation way back in high school. Nothing bonds two gangly little greaseballs like daddy issues and an embarrassing love for tabletop roleplay games. But hearing about Tragic Loss to the Government and the World Riley made me realize that to Sam, I ain't special. Sure, he feels bad for me, but he's felt worse for other people. That's comforting, oddly enough.

I think what I really feel bad about, though, is that I was glad he'd hurt before, too. Fuck, that sounds awful. But, think about Steve. Guy's never seen war, never seen grief, never seen anything more than straight A's, straight teeth, and a straight sexuality sure to lead him straight to the top.

Do I envy him? Sure! I envy him a lot. But I also know that if I opened up to him, he'd be scared away by the dark inside me. He's never seen shit like that, and it would disgust him. But Sam? Sam's been to this rodeo, he knows what it's like to ugly cry in the bathroom of a Hooters during your crush's sweet sixteen and wonder what the hell you ever saw in a guy more focused on the massive tits than the fresh cut on his pal's arm-

Well, maybe he doesn't know what _that's_ like, but Sam knows pain. And I'm grateful for that, fucking terrible human being that I am, because it means I can open up (just a little just a little) and show him some of the pain that I've got, too.

"You seen Steve lately?" Sam asks, after swallowing his mouthful of cheese balls and wiping an orange hand on his pants, "Nat was saying that he's been out of the house a lot the past week of so, I was wondering if he was with you."

I wish. Just kid-fuck, never mind. "Nah, he hasn't been with me." Perfect oppurtunity to tell Sam about those pesky little feelings, though, open up like you planned to- "What do you care, though? Couldn't Nat just ask me herself? Or did you jump on the chance to help your lady the moment she needed help?" I wink, and Sam throws a cheese ball at me.

"Shut up, man. Ain't like it's a crime to wanna help out a friend. Besides, I was curious. Wanted to see if you had friends, too." Yeah, Sammy, I got friends. Even if I wish they were more.

"Yeah..." Tell him, pussy, come on. Ain't like it's hard (damn baby you're so hard knew you wanted this you fucking slut yeah get over here) to talk to a friend (this is what you deserve bet you like it huh bet you do fag) about a little crush (hey man I think you're choking him might wanna ease up unless you plan on killing the guy).

Or maybe I just hide the feelings deep, deep, inside, and never let anyone find them. "Hey, man, you good?" (hey man I think you're choking him)

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." I shake my head, trying and failing to fling the frown off my face. "What were-right, Natasha. Do you honestly think she doesn't notice the way you look at her? I mean, dude, you're like a puppy."

Sam's mouth opens in outrage, and I grin. "Am not! What do you care, anyways? You like her, or something?" (yeah I know you like that I know you do fucking slut fucking fag fucking)

"Nah, she's not my type." Sam's eyebrows raise (bet that dick hasn't even seen a pussy before bet I'm the only one who ever touched you), and I pray to God he just thinks I don't like gingers. "You should go for it, though, be macho instead of mopey."

Sam barks out a laugh. "I'm sorry, _macho instead of mopey?_ Where the fuck did you get that from, some fuckin-I don't even know. It's corny as hell. I love it."

"That came straight from the brilliant mind of James Barnes, as a matter of fact. This generation's Shakespeare."

"Uh huh. You keep telling yourself that." Sam rolls his eyes, leaning back and grabbing another handful of those god-awful cheese balls. "Macho, not mopey." He snickers to himself, stuffing his face once again.

"It's not even that funny, you know that, right? Like, seriously."

"Whatever. Don't yuck my yum."

The words I held back from Sam haunt my mind over the next days, coming to the forefront whenever I text Steve a meme or short little update on life. "Look at this banana steve it's literally STRAIGHT" "Look at me like you love me steve because I can't bear the thought that I'm falling for a man who's STRAIGHT" "lol that's awesome, did it taste weird?" "I've always loved you, Bucky, come over right now so I can taste you"

But fantasy is not and never will be reality, not when I'm me and he's him. It's all well and good to dream of kissing (bet you like that fag) Steve, holding (hold STILL I swear to god if you try to leave one more time) Steve, loving (yeah yeah c'mon don't hold back I love it when they make those pretty little noises) Steve, so long as I remember that these dreams can never come true.

Do I love him? I don't think so. He occupies my thoughts, makes me want him with every stretch and sip of a straw. But love is more than lust. My feelings are, too, they linger upon that kind smile and sense of humor, that fierce temper that only comes out when it needs to, but I don't think my feelings are love. At least, not yet.

I loved Him. At least, I thought I did. For everything He did to me, I think what I hate the most is that he skewed my sense of what love is. Because I don't think that what we had was love, I really don't, but I have nothing else to compare it to make sure.

He was kind, when He needed to be. And even though He scared me, He drew me in, too. Made me think that maybe I meant something, maybe I deserved to have the touches and sweet words he gave me. And when He...

Well, then I lost it all. I lost my worth, my qualifications for love. Who am I now? I can't say that I liked him. But he made me who I am. He gave me value, and even though I know I didn't deserve what he did...didn't I?

He asked me to help him. He asked me for help, and I didn't give it. That's on me, not Him, no matter who committed the sin. I had helped Him up until then, knowing how much He needed me, and He only hurt me when I didn't do what He wanted. What He _needed._ So really, it's my fault.

I'm sure Mark would disagree, the little pansy. But Mark wasn't there, he doesn't know what was going on, not really. Even if I talked for hours about everything that happened, my words could never do justice to that event. Not that I'm gonna talk about it.

It occupies a lot of my thoughts, sure. That's to be expected. But I'll get over it on my own, I know I will, so there's no point in burdening other people.

Maybe the reason I haven't told anyone about the metal arm I'm getting installed is because I don't want to burden other people.

The United States Army sucks ass, but they do the right thing every blue moon. I guess if you're a war hero, they'll take pity and decide to spent some cash on you. So, the arm. I gotta say, I'm excited. I've had one arm for way too long, and I'm excited to be normal again, to look normal again.

Ma knows about the arm, obviously, seeing as she's helping pay for it. Becks does too, because she's a nosy bitch. But...they're the only ones.

Maybe I'll just surprise my friends. Show up to a party or something with two limbs, act like everything's normal. The recovery period is kind of long, to be honest, but I'm sure I can find excuses not to see anyone until I'm able to move that thing around.

And then...it'll be okay. I'll be able to get dressed quickly. Go places without a thousand eyes going straight to that ugly stump. Exist without my entire appearance orbiting around the distinct lack hanging about where my arm should be.

I can't fucking wait. But...a part of me doesn't want it.

I mean, it's-God, this sounds awful. But it's an excuse, right? An explanation for why I'm so fucked up. "Sergeant Barnes, the armless hero". That guy's allowed to be fucked up, because the thing that got him kicked off the battlefield is still a metaphorical festering wound.

But Bucky? Bucky doesn't deserve that pity, that pain, not after he's gotten everything he's ever wanted. And the awful thing is, I've come to rely on that pity and pain just as much as-if not more than-I relied on my arm when I still had it.

Who will I be when I have what I've mourned and missed for months?

I'd like to say that I'll be the same, but I know that isn't true. Because even if my mind and thoughts remain unchanged, the way that others treat me is sure to undergo a dramatic transformation. Maybe...maybe that's why I don't want to tell anyone about the arm.

Maybe I just want to stay where I am for a while.

It's happening, though, whether I want it to or not. I'm getting the arm, and it's going to change everything. Just gotta hope that the change is for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! I know that there's been a lot of referenced to the mysterious "He" in this story, and I'm sure it's infuriating not to know the whole situation that Bucky keeps referencing. I promise that you will learn. Also, as you can tell, He was extremely abusive. I will not tolerate any glorification of that relationship, now or when you learn more about it. Just wanted to make that clear right off the bat.  
> Bucky has an unhealthy mindset when it comes to his past. I'm aware of this, and I'm doing it on purpose. I want everyone to know that you should not idolize what Bucky does or thinks, because it is, as a general rule, really fucking twisted by everything he's been through.   
> Hope that makes some things clear for you all.  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


	11. Salute the Soldier's Sister

"So you weren't gonna tell me that you got a metal fucking arm?!" Steve yells, startling the nurses in his vicinity and making me flinch.

Well...probably should give some context first.

The day I was supposed to get the arm installed approached me with excited trepidation, drawing ever nearer with a rapid lethargy. I considered telling my friends a thousand times, but decided that it would be better to keep that information to myself until the very last moment. Because I'm cool like that.

I was excited, despite my nerves, thrilled that I had a chance at being a person again. I showed up to the hospital with a smile and a backpack, ready for whatever was to come.

I wasn't ready for this, though.

"I mean, seriously, Buck! What made you think that I wouldn't want to hear about this? Did you-" Realization strikes Steve, and a hurt expression flickers onto his face as his voice softens dramatically. "Did you honestly think that I wouldn't want to hear about this?"

I sigh, running one of my hands (one of them! because there's two now!) across my forehead. "I don't know, Steve. I guess it just happened so fast, and I didn't want to-to worry you, or something? Sorry, I just..."

Steve lets out a loud exhale from his nose and sits gingerly, pulling up a chair to my bedside. "No, don't be sorry. I'm sorry. Can we redo this conversation?"

"Sounds great."

"Okay," he says with a smile, "Hey Bucky! Looks like you've got a metal arm, wow!"

"Sure do, sorry I didn't tell you about it. I can control it and everything!" I display the arm's dexterity by flopping it over in my attempt to playfully punch Steve on the arm.

He takes my hand in his, inspecting the metal and sending sensation down my spine even though I can't feel his fingers touching me. "It's incredible, Buck, truly. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, Stevie."

I just barely catch a startled smile on his face as a result of the nickname before Becks comes barging into the room. "I'm getting Oreos what kind-who are you?" She stares at Steve, and I pull my arm away quickly before she decides to mortify me forever. "Wait, are you Steve? I've heard a LOT about you."

"If I'm right in saying that you're Becca, then I've heard a lot about you, too."

Becks throws a grin my way before embracing a very surprised Steve. "Well, it's great to finally meet you! Isn't his arm so cool? It's like...straight out of a sci fi movie. Anyways, Buck, I was gonna ask what kind of Oreos you wanted. Ma is coming soon, and I'm pretty sure you're gonna want something to ease the blow of the tears she'll spill on you."

"Yikes, is she really that emotional?" I say with a frown, "I thought it would be better if she didn't have to see me when I was all comatose and shit-"

"Yeah, no. It's a nightmare. You definitely need Oreos."

"Peanut butter double stuf?"

"You got it, Sarge."

Becca breezes back into the hallway, and Steve turns to me after watching her go. "She's a character. I like her."

"Understatement of the century, but yeah. Becks is great."

Clearing his throat, Steve moves to stand up. "I think-if it's okay with you-I think I'll leave so that you and your mom can meet up. I just don't want to intrude-"

"Oh, sure," I say, trying to contain my disappointment, "Yeah, that's fine." Would've loved to have a backup buffer in case Becca doesn't get back in time, but sure. Take off, Steven. He awkwardly shows himself out with a quiet, "Bye, then," leaving me to sit alone and wait for whatever emotional storm my mother is sure to bring.

Ma has always lived life with her heart, but seeing her walk through that hospital door is probably the most worked up I've ever seen her. Tears streaming before she even comes to my bedside, eyes red and face blotchy, she cries out, "Bucky, baby!" and envelops me in a hug.

"Hi, Ma," I say, face squished into her shoulder. She rocks me back and forth while squeezing tightly, before letting go and leaning back. "Oh, sweetheart. Are you okay? Does anything hurt? What do you need?"

"I'm fine, thanks. A little sore, maybe, but-"

"Are they giving you painkillers? They better be, you just got a whole new _limb,_ you need painkillers-"

"I've got meds, Ma, don't worry." Her posture relaxes slightly, although she's still a crying wreck. "'Sides, the pain really isn't that bad. Nothing compared to when I lost the arm in the first place."

"I suppose..." Ma bites her life fretfully and takes my flesh hand, squeezes it tight. After squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a shuddering sigh, she looks at me with more tears and a mournfully delighted smile. "Gosh, sweetheart, it's like-oh, it's like I've got my little boy back." She laughs, carefree, oblivious to the nausea that overtakes me.

_It's like I've got my little boy back!_

"Sure." My voice and body language swiftly freeze, becoming far more icy far faster than I ever would've thought possible. Ma notices immediately, drawing back and furrowing her eyebrows.

"Honey, what's wrong? Oh, God, did I hurt you when I gave you that hug, are you-?"

"I'm fine, Ma! Fucking fantastic. Real happy for you, too, glad you finally have a son again now that I have two limbs." Although my words come out far harsher than intended, I can't find it in me to regret them.

Horror overtakes my mother's features as she claps a hand to her stomach. "James, that's not what I-"

"Sure."

"Baby, please, I didn't mean to say that-"

"You don't need to apologize, Ma, it's fine. Really." I force a smile, look down and pick at a thread of my blanket with my good hand. "I don't care."

Ma's voice is softer when she says, "But I do. I care about you, honey, I just-God, I just want you to be safe. I just want you to be safe, and happy, and-"

"Yeah, Ma, I get it. Seriously, drop it. You're fine."

"Okay..."

Three days later, I decide that it's about time to get out of my mom's house. Because while that place comes with unconditional love, free food, and and awesome sister, it also comes with shitty statements like that one that make me want to claw my fucking skin off.

Like she's got her little boy back, she says. No matter what she meant by that...I just need to leave, that's all. Live with people who don't expect me to be the kid they knew what felt like a lifetime ago.

So I text Sam. I would've had to, anyways, just to let him know that I got a bionic limb and all. "Hey I'm in the hospital can u come over and talk" followed immediately by another text saying "I'm not dying or anything btw I just got a new arm."

Perfect.

He texts me back only seconds later, "what the fuck? yeah dude sure but seriously wtf. where you at"

I put down my phone just as Becca comes into the room. After hearing me talk about what Ma said, she was furious, but didn't chew her out as per my request. My mom means well, she doesn't deserve to be yelled at. "Hey, Buck!" Becca says cheerfully.

"Hey, can we talk?"

"Sure..." She sits next to the bed, immediately sobering her joyful expression. "Everything okay?"

I clear my throat, almost ashamed although I know she will understand what I'm about to tell her. "Yeah...yeah. I-well, I think I'm gonna move out. Of Ma's house. I know Sam has an extra bedroom in his apartment, so I figured I'd get a job and split rent with him if he's okay with it. It's not-I really love being around you, Becks, it's just that with Ma-"

"You don't need to defend yourself, that's cool." I can see right into her heart with a projected smile that's both proud and sad. "I'm really glad you feel comfortable doing this, Buck, Sam is awesome and I bet that it'll be great for you to have some space."

"I don't want space from you. You know that, right? I'm not leaving because I want to...to abandon you, or something."

"I know."

A silence falls upon the hospital room, and I shift awkwardly. A question comes into my head, and I blurt it out before I lose my guts and never learn the answer. "Was it hard for you? When I left the first time?"

After a moment of shock, Becca chuckles dryly. "Yeah, Bucky. It was tough. I was so damn proud of you, just like everyone else, so fucking terrified that you would die or get captured and I would never see you again.

"I knew it wasn't about me. You had wanted to enlist for long enough that I was prepared, I didn't feel abandoned or anything. But it...it changed the house. Ma-I mean, you know what she's like now, how different than she is from before you left. I watched that fear grow and grow until she couldn't even talk about you without getting anxious.

"And people wanted to talk about you all the time, Buck. All the time. It was like...it was like I was the soldier's sister instead of a person of my own whenever people remembered you, they'd always wanna hear about my brother the hero. Not that I-fuck, I was proud, too. Still am. But after the first few years, I guess I just got tired of it. Of talking about you, when it had been so long and I wasn't even sure I knew who I was talking about at all.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to make all the shit you went through about me-"

"But it is about you, Rebecca," I say quietly. "You know I wanna talk to you too, right? Not the soldier's sister, I wanna talk to Becks. Sometimes I get pretty damn sick of everything being about the shit I saw and did out there, I wanna-I want to know you, too. I wanna hear about what you did, who you met, how you were. I missed my sister just as much as you missed your brother."

Becca's eyes well with tears, and I can't help but mirror them. "Fuck you, Barnes, making me cry. Why are we being so fucking emotional right now? God."

"I know, it feels really out of character," I say, getting a watery laugh from her in return. "Want a hug?"

"I'd take one," she says, leaning in and holding me as close as she can without causing any pain. I just close my eyes for a moment, breathe her in and let myself be reminded of the little girl I left crying in the airport that day when life changed forever. The little girl who's turned into a woman I love more than my own damn lungs.

We stay there for a long time, taking advantage of the rare occasion where we both feel capable of talking about feelings and shit. Eventually Becca pulls away, wiping at her eyes and covering up her genuine smile with a halfhearted attempt at irritation. "You really suck, you know that? I spent a really long time on my makeup this morning, and you just killed it."

I smirk, leaning back and taking on a mocking tone. "Sorry. You gonna have a funeral? Want me to give a speech about how beautiful it was, how it's life was cut too short because of your evil, evil broth-"

"Shut the fuck up, James, I'm being serious. It looked really good! And I was gonna meet this dude for coffee after I visited you, and now I'm gonna have to go home and fix the mess you made on my face, first-"

"Oh, wow, that's so awful. It's not like it only takes you a few minutes to drive home and a few more to put makeup on, no, this is a REALLY DIFFICULT TASK that's just gonna be TERRIBLE for you-"

"It is, actually, so shut up. I'm leaving now."

"Bye."

As she goes, I let myself feel sad. Fuck, I'll miss this girl if I move out. So much. But in the long run, it'll be good for me to distance myself from that house. Even if I can't get woken up to banging pots and pans anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's been a while, I had a pretty massive block when it came to this story but I'm hoping to start updating more frequently! Hope you enjoyed even though it took a while. I'd love to hear your thoughts so far! Feel free to leave comments.  
> Lots of love,  
> The Author


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